CHAPTER 180: TRAPPED??

Clown’s porcelain grin gleamed in the neon haze.

"Then tonight," he said softly, his tone almost musical, "you’re in for your first real game."

Hades narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

Clown didn’t answer. Instead, he snapped his gloved fingers once, then clapped twice — sharp, deliberate.

The sound cut through the buzz of the casino like a gunshot.

At once, the gamblers went silent. The music stuttered to a stop. Heads turned toward the center of the room.

The Clown’s expression never changed. "Showtime," he murmured.

A door on the far side of the hall opened with a metallic creak.

The smell of alcohol and gun oil drifted in before the men themselves did.

First came the leader.

He was tall, built like a boulder, his neck covered in faded tattoos of snakes coiling around skulls. A scar ran diagonally from his left brow to his cheek, cutting through a cloudy, blind eye. His hair was slicked back, but his face carried the roughness of the street — the kind that spoke of knives, fights, and too many years of bloodshed.

He wore a long, open leather jacket despite the warmth, a silver chain hanging from his belt. The weight of the pistol tucked into his waistband was obvious.

When he spoke, his voice carried a strange calm that only made it more menacing.

"Long time, Clown," he drawled, his accent heavy, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Didn’t think you’d drag a lawyer into this mess."

Clown turned to Hades with mock courtesy. "Meet Viktor Dane — current boss of the Hound Syndicate, self-proclaimed king of the old market."

Viktor gave a slight nod, though his one good eye was cold and calculating.

Behind him, five men entered — rough, armed, mean. Boots scraping tile, guns visible under their coats.

Between them, they dragged a man — wrists tied, head down, blood streaking his face.

Clark.

The boy’s father.

His shirt was torn, one sleeve missing, and his lip split wide open. He stumbled as they shoved him forward, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud.

The casino air turned heavy.

Clown folded his hands neatly, that awful smile still carved across his face.

"Well then," he said softly, "the guest of honor has arrived."

Viktor leaned forward on the roulette table, the heavy lights of the casino glinting off the scar that cut across his cheek.

"So, I heard," he said, his voice a lazy growl, "you’re paying for this man’s life."

Hades didn’t flinch. His calm was unnerving.

"Mr. Viktor," he began evenly, "Mr. Clark is a respected figure in this city. I understand there’s been... bitterness between you two. Some business conflict, perhaps."

He set the silver briefcase on the table with a solid click.

"But if you promise to let him go, the five million dollars inside are yours. And Mr. Clark will never interfere in your operations again."

From the ground, Clark lifted his bruised face, confusion in his swollen eyes.

He didn’t know this man—this "John."

He didn’t know why a stranger would risk his life, his money, for him.

Something about it felt unreal.

Viktor’s laughter broke the tension like a whip.

"Interesting," he said, leaning back, voice dripping mock amusement. "Real interesting. But how about we make this fun?"

Hades frowned slightly. "Fun?"

"Yeah," Viktor said, snapping his fingers. A dealer at the blackjack table froze mid-shuffle.

"Let’s play a round. You and me. Five million dollars and Clark’s life on the line."

Hades’ eyes narrowed. "I don’t understand."

Viktor grinned, the corner of his mouth curling like a knife.

"You win, the man’s yours—for five million. But if you lose..."

He paused, just to enjoy the weight of his words.

"...you pay twenty million instead."

Clark froze. Even the dealers looked up from their tables.

The Clown’s porcelain mask gleamed in the low light as he tilted his head, amused.

"That wasn’t part of the deal," Hades said quietly.

Viktor shrugged. "Deals change. Stakes rise. Life’s a gamble, John."

Hades turned his gaze to the Clown, searching for some flicker of reason.

But the masked broker only laughed, shoulders shaking.

"Don’t look at me. I think it’s fair," he said, his voice sing-song and cruel. "The boy can afford it. It’s not your money anyway, is it?"

Hades’ jaw tightened. "A fair trade, huh? Tell me something, Viktor."

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

"If I lose—and I hand you twenty million—what will you even do with it?"

Viktor’s smirk twitched. "What kind of stupid question is that?"

"No," Hades said softly, his tone flattening into steel. "What I mean is... I don’t think you’ll be needing money in the place you’re going."

Before Viktor could react, Hades’ hand blurred.

A metallic click echoed through the silent hall.

The barrel of a pistol pressed against Viktor’s forehead.

The laughter died instantly.

"Whoa, whoa," Viktor said, raising his hands halfway, still smirking, though his voice carried a tremor now. "You think you’re some kind of cowboy? You’re alone here, John. This is my house. My men. My rules."

Hades’ lips curved just slightly. "Really?"

The next sound wasn’t laughter.

It was boots—many of them—crunching glass and wood.

From every exit, shadows poured in, armed, silent, precise.

Dozens of Graveyard operatives flooded the casino, rifles raised, visors glowing faintly in the neon light.

Tables overturned, glasses shattered, gamblers screamed and hit the floor.

Every one of Viktor’s men found a gun barrel pointed between their eyes before they could even blink.

The Clown stood by the bar, slow-clapping, that terrible smile never fading.

Hades leaned close enough for Viktor to smell the gun oil on his weapon.

"Viktor, Viktor," he said quietly, almost disappointed. "You really thought this was your place?"

He smirked. "What a fool."

Then..

Suddenly—darkness.

The casino plunged into black, the music cutting mid-beat, the neon lights vanishing into nothing.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then chaos.

Gunfire cracked through the dark like lightning, followed by screams and the crash of overturned tables.

The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

Hades ducked low, drawing his second pistol. "Hold positions!" he barked, but the command was swallowed by the confusion.

And just as suddenly as it had gone dark—

The lights flickered back on.

The entire casino froze.

Viktor Dane lay sprawled on the marble floor, eyes open, lifeless.

A single bullet wound in the center of his forehead.

Blood seeped slowly toward the roulette wheel, painting it red and black alike.

Around him, his men stood frozen in shock, disarmed, surrounded.

And near the bar—

The Clown was gone.

So was the briefcase.

Hades’ voice broke the silence. "Find him! Now!"

Graveyard operatives spread instantly, some to the exits, others sweeping the corridors and rooftops.

But outside—

The Old Market was a maze of crumbling alleys and flickering lamps.

A figure darted through the narrow streets, coat flaring, clutching a silver briefcase tight in one hand.

The Clown was laughing as he ran, his voice echoing through the cold air like a haunting melody.

"Hah! Always the same! Killers, soldiers, and their games!"

He turned a corner at the cross-section—

—and tripped.

Something hit his leg with surgical precision.

The Clown’s balance broke; the briefcase flew from his hand, spinning across the wet pavement before landing near a cracked drain.

He hit the ground hard, his mask tilting sideways.

From the shadows ahead, a small figure stepped out.

Ghost.

Only eleven, but the stillness in his eyes made him seem older than the world around him.

The Clown chuckled, even as he pushed himself up on one elbow.

"Well, well," he wheezed, "you little boy... I knew you weren’t that simple."

He grinned behind his crooked mask. "The future of the Graveyard... is bright at least."

A black van screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley.

Two masked men jumped out, grabbed the Clown by his arms, and dragged him in.

The van sped off before the echo of its tires had even faded.

Moments later, Hades came sprinting around the corner, a half-dozen operatives behind him.

"Where’s he?"

Ghost was standing still, the briefcase clutched in both hands.

"He ran away," the boy said quietly. "With someone. In a van."

Hades glanced down the empty street, jaw tight.

"Did he say anything?"

Ghost nodded. "He said... the future of the Graveyard is bright. At least."

Hades frowned, the words settling like a riddle in his mind.

"Well," he finally said, holstering his weapon, "let him go. Viktor’s dead. The mission’s done."

He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

"We’re going home."

The two of them walked away into the night—

the silver briefcase gleaming faintly under the dying streetlights.

Present - Star Harbor

The faint hum of the city below was distant, almost drowned by the slow ticking of the wall clock.

June stood across from him, her tablet in hand, waiting for his response to something she’d said minutes ago. But Miles wasn’t there—not really. His gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the waves of Star Harbor, the horizon reflected faintly in his eyes.

"Boss?" June’s voice softened, snapping him out of his trance. "What is it? You’ve been staring outside for a while. Is there any problem?"

Miles blinked once, turning toward her. For a second, he didn’t answer, then finally said, "June, can I ask you something?"

She tilted her head, puzzled. "Of course, boss. What is it?"

Miles’s tone was calm but distant, like someone thinking aloud. "Do you ever... feel trapped here?"

"Trapped?" June echoed, eyebrows knitting. "No, why would I?"

Miles leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting briefly to the ceiling before returning to her. "I mean... you’re young. You must have dreams you still want to chase. In Sterling Enterprises, all you do is work. I’ve never seen you take a break, or go out just to have fun. Don’t you want more? A future outside this office—maybe fall in love, get married, start a family?"

June blinked, then pressed a hand to her forehead, half laughing in disbelief. "Boss, are you okay? Where did that come from?"

Miles chuckled faintly, but didn’t answer.

June sighed. "Trapped? Me? Not at all. Working with you was part of my dream, you know? That’s why I trained so hard under Miss Monica. I owe a lot to you—sure—but that’s not the reason I’m here. I want to be here."

She smiled, stepping a little closer, her voice light but firm. "I’ve got plenty of friends in the office. I hang out with April sometimes; Dion and Flora treat me like family. It’s not all work, I promise. And about the future—well, that’ll come when it comes. I’ll let life take its time."

Her tone softened, the smile fading into concern. "Don’t worry about me, boss. Tell me instead—what’s bothering you?"

Miles looked at her for a moment, as if weighing what to say, then smiled faintly. "Nothing. Really. Thanks for telling me that, June. Guess I was worrying over nothing."

June let out a quiet sigh of relief. "You think too much sometimes." She straightened her tablet. "I’ll bring you a good coffee. You clearly need one."

She turned and walked out of the cabin, the door closing softly behind her.

Miles exhaled slowly, the smile fading from his lips. He turned his chair toward the massive window again. The sea outside shimmered under the morning light, calm and endless—